


The Vault

by Robin4



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark One's Dagger, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin4/pseuds/Robin4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark Ones don’t die.  Instead, their souls are transported to the Vault, where they remain for eternity with nothing save each other and their own darkness for company.  Despite his sacrifice, Rumplestiltskin was no different...and his time in the Vault will scar him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

_Villains don't get happy endings._   As last words went, they weren't too bad.  Had someone asked Rumplestiltskin what note he'd prefer to go out on, he'd certainly have told them that a clever quip needed to be in there somewhere.  Not that he'd expected to die like this.  Not by his own hand, and not for such a reason.  But this—well _this_ , he would have expected. 

When the white light cleared, he was standing in darkness.  Cloying, heavy darkness, rather like Pandora's box, but with company.  The kris dagger was still clutched in his hand, and there was a rip in his suit over his heart, but he was otherwise intact.  There wasn’t even a slight ache in his shoulder, and he imagined that he could feel his heart beating in his chest, despite having stabbed himself in it not long before.  He felt shockingly human amidst the heavy feeling of evil around him; the evil was so thick and potent that they almost seemed to be underwater.  

A quick glance revealed that there were eighteen other faces looking at him, watching him, judging him.  Few looked human as he did; most featured the scales and outer evidence of the curse he'd once known so well, hard-bodied and harder-edged, oozing evil from their very pores.  Some faces were ghostly pale, others razor thin, but none looked happy.  Rage filled the air, poignant and sharp.  He could taste their desperation, could feel the magic swirling impotently around each one of them, burning for release it would never be given.  They were trapped here, as he was.  Where was he?  A holding tank for the most evil souls a curse had ever spawned? 

Rumplestiltskin supposed he should not be surprised.  There would be no peace for one such as he.  Not even in death. 

Looking around as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see walls of ice and stone.  Black ooze dripped from the ceiling like giant icicles, sometimes landing on the inhabitants and making them shy aside as if burned.  Glancing up—and studiously ignoring the fact that the others were all staring hungrily his way—Rumplestiltskin studied the ooze dispassionately, his well-trained mind tripping through centuries’ of knowledge to decide if it could actually hurt him or if the effect was purely psychological.  His body _felt_ solid enough, but he had the feeling that it was merely a manifestation of his subconscious desire to appear alive.  Was that the same for all of them?  Surely it had to be. 

This place—the _Vault of the Dark One,_ the echoes of his curse supplied—looked rather like many cultures from the Land Without Magic assumed Hell must look.  Curious.  So far as Rumplestiltskin knew, the legends of their land didn’t depict a black and red underworld of darkness in which the evil suffered for eternity.  But here he was, and Rumplestiltskin instinctively knew that this _was_ for eternity.  Yet another price of the Dark One’s curse—it owned his soul in life, and would do so in death.  Utterly. 

There were no creature comforts, no furniture, and no rooms other than this one.  Just a vast cavern of black ooze and shimmering walls that spat fireballs at random intervals.  Comfortable, certainly.  Would there be demons along to torment them, or were they expected to do that for one another?  Rumplestiltskin rather expected the later.  His compatriots seemed more than perfectly capable of making one another suffer for all eternity.  Nineteen Dark Ones, stripped of their power and their magic—each by one who _also_ resided in this vault.  There were no friendships here, he knew, only temporary alliances born out of a desire to make someone else suffer.  The vault was home to the vicious and the cruel, the tricky and the powerful, the most dangerous beings to ever inhabit the Enchanted Forest.  This was the price, in the end, Rumplestiltskin knew instinctively.  They would spend eternity battling against one another, all over a curse none of them still possessed. 

Glancing down at the dagger in his hand, Rumplestiltskin knew that was not completely true.  Dead or no, _he_ was still the Dark One.  So much for the hope that sacrificing himself would break him free of that curse once and for all. 

The others were approaching; he could sense them as much as he could see movement out of the corner of his eye, wary and furious faces glowing in the acidic red light.  But it was the one to the far right that spoke first, his deep voice full of amusement: 

“Ah, it’s the cowardly spinner at last.  I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive—though it appears that your cowardice helped you avoid death for quite some time.  I suppose it must have been useful after all.” 

Rumplestiltskin chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat and one that used to send people scurrying away from Mr. Gold.  Although he would have been able to assume his old form, golden scaled and glitteringly dangerous, with a simple thought, he chose to remain human for the moment.  One of the most interesting lessons he had learned in Storybrooke was that this old coward’s form _could_ inspire fear; he didn’t need the mask of the monster to demonstrate his power.  Besides which—this form reminded him of why he’d chosen to die, of how he’d conquered his curse and saved those he loved.  He was more than the sum of his curse, unlike the man staring at him so victoriously. 

Finally, he looked up, a small and knowing smile on his face.  “Unlike you, dearie, I am exactly where I wish to be.”  Rumplestiltskin held up the dagger, very briefly, to make sure the others noticed it, and then it vanished with a twirl of his wrist.  He still had that much magic here, then, enough magic to hide it where none of the others could reach without his cooperation.  “Zoso.” 

Magic.  The cuff had not followed him, though his suit had.  This place was clearly driven by their desires, at least a little.  Interesting. 

“How did you—?” The presence of the dagger clearly startled the question out of his predecessor, but pride stopped him.  Rumplestiltskin just continued to smile. 

“Let’s just say that our curse has died with me,” he said with no small amount of satisfaction.   _And those I love did not._   Baelfire could find a happy ending without him, Rumplestiltskin knew—perhaps the road to doing so would even be easier without having the Dark One as his father.  And Belle… _Oh, Belle._   For her he had no illusions.  She’d made him stronger, but he’d abandoned her again, and this time to a fate that no one could save her from.  She’d lost her True Love, and what was left of his heart twisted within him.  Belle would never be the same again, and it was his fault—but at least she would live.  He could give her that much. 

“That’s impossible,” another voice said, and Rumplestiltskin cocked his head to study this Dark One. 

She was a tall woman, though never one who might have been beautiful, even before the curse.  Her dark hair was tangled and wild, and her skin scaly but more blue than gold.  Reptilian blue eyes stared at Rumplestiltskin as if he were prey to be hunted, doubtful and furious all at the same time.  Her clothing was made of silk and fur, luxurious and sharp edged all at the same time.  Were those lion teeth decorating her cloak?  Rumplestiltskin rather thought so. 

“Well, then we _do_ have a problem,” he replied, allowing the pitch of his voice to rise slightly and stringing the words together in a bit of a song.  Instinct told him that he did not dare show weakness here, not with these people who were so very like the worst parts of his own corrupted soul.  Showing weakness, showing the spinner he had once been, the coward Zoso expected him to be, would only doom him for eternity. 

And if he was going to spend eternity in this place, this vault—and it seemed like he was, judging from the eighteen other faces looking at him, some more interested than others but _all_ paying attention—Rumplestiltskin was not going to do it as a coward.  He would do as he had done for the last three centuries: twist events and people to suit his purposes, and manipulate everything.  He knew how to play this game better than many in the vault, and Rumplestiltskin had not died because he’d failed to play the game well.  Unlike so many of his predecessors, he’d never lost the dagger.  He’d never had to beg or manipulate someone into ending his life.  He’d exited the living world on his own terms, and if this was how he would spend death, he would do that on his terms, too. 

He had hoped for peace, but what would he do with that, without those he loved?  Rumplestiltskin had not been at _peace_ for any extended period of time since he’d gone off to fight in the Ogre Wars—or perhaps when Bae was a child, when it was just the two of them, and no matter how horrible their life had been, it had been theirs.  Looking back on it, Rumplestiltskin _thought_ he was happy back then, but there was no way to be certain.  He’d been happy with Belle, too, in fits and starts amongst crises and heartbreak, but on the whole, his life had not been one of happiness or tranquility.  Perhaps that was a good thing, because this vault contained neither…and he knew how to deal with that. 

“I think _you_ have a problem,” yet a third Dark One snarled—he would have to learn their names, connect them with the bits of memory rolling around in his mind, for thinking of them each as the Dark One would only confuse matters.  

This one was male, and hardly looked like he’d ever been human.  Oh, the scaly skin was familiar enough, though his had a green tint to it.  His hairless head featured a quintet of horns, though, probably magiced there by his own spells to make himself look more fierce.  Almost all evidence of humanity was gone from _this_ creature; blackened teeth ended in sharp points, and his hands _were_ claws instead of just featuring claw-like nails.  This one hadn’t wanted to be human at all, and hadn’t wanted to be free of the curse.  He’d reveled in it, sought the power out, hunted and killed his predecessor—the short and squat woman to the far left, who kept her angry distance from the one with horns.  _Arwan,_ Rumplestiltskin’s memories reported to him suddenly, matching the horned face to a pair of centuries’ worth of darkness. 

Arwan had been the Horned King, a creature out of legend who had set himself up as a god-king, ruling several kingdoms by force for almost two centuries.  Arwan was the longest-lived of the Dark Ones, and he was clearly proud of that fact. He’d lasted until a hero took him down—Taran, a pigkeeper turned king who made the mistake of killing the “Dead Lord” Arwan, and had thus inherited his powers.  A good man turned monster, Taran had wound up even crueler and more bloodthirsty than his predecessor…but had always hated himself for it. 

His memories were starting to catch up with him; each Dark One knew at least a little about their predecessors, because the curse preserved something of the others for which the newest host for the curse could learn from.  So he knew who these people were, knew their deepest darknesses and a little bit of their history.  But none of them knew _him_. 

That was an advantage he intended to exploit, so he turned to Arwan casually, mentally testing the limits of magic within the vault as he did so.  There was not much of it, or if there was it was different than he was accustomed to, but there _was_ magic.  “Why ever do you say that, dearie?” 

His tone wasn’t any more friendly than Arwan’s had been, though it was less angry, more playful.  Not every Dark One had played the trickster, the imp.  That had been Rumplestiltskin’s preferred guise; most of his predecessors—at least judging from their current appearances—preferred to inspire sheer terror. 

“You don’t know how things work here, do you, little man?” Arwan growled, stepping forward to loom over Rumplestiltskin.  “I don’t care what circumstances you have arrived here under.  You’ll submit to me.” 

Ah.  So Arwan thought himself the power here.  A quick scan of the others’ faces told Rumplestiltskin that was partially the case; everyone in here hated Arwan, but some of them feared him, as well.   There were no friends in the vault, Rumplestiltskin reminded himself.  Only enemies and temporary allies. 

What else should he expect?  This was not some pleasant afterlife, and these were not nice people.  So Rumplestiltskin laughed at Arwan. 

“Will I?” 

Magic gathered immediately.  Arwan did not even bother to respond, only attempted to smash raw power into Rumplestiltskin, hoping to hammer him into submission as he’d clearly done with so many others.  Judging from Zoso’s not-too-sympathetic smirk, he’d been Arwan’s latest victim, some three hundred years earlier—but Rumplestiltskin brushed the attack aside with a wave of one hand.  And he made it _look_ easy. 

 _Half the game is what others_ see _, not what actually is,_ Rumplestiltskin knew.  Arwan had thrown a significant amount of power at him, dark magic with teeth to rend and tear at an unruly opponent.  But the power had not been unlike magics Rumplestiltskin was well accustomed to using himself, and far less refined.  Magic here was different than in the real world, different even from the interestingly stifled version he’d brought to Storybrooke.  It was both weaker and more distant, and utterly trapped in the vault.  There were no outside power sources, and once the magic inside the vault was used up, there was nothing to do but wait for it to regenerate— 

Except Rumplestiltskin _did_ have an outside source.  He had the curse itself.  He had the dagger. 

That was why he felt one type of magic and used another.  He’d instinctively drawn upon the dagger, not the meagre magic inside the vault, the power that Arwan and the others continuously fought over.  Few had the skill to section off a bit of it for their own use and keep the others out—and immediately, Rumplestiltskin filed away the knowledge of which ones _did._   Those were the quiet ones, the ones who had chosen not to make an issue of Arwan’s supposed supremacy.  They were the loners, then.  Those three faces—no, four, for one was further in the distance and feigning disinterest—were studying him now, sensing as he did the same, walling off a bit of magic (and including that which Arwan had thrown at him) for himself.  Rumplestiltskin might have had the dagger, but he had never encountered a situation in which possessing too much power was a bad thing.  _Those_ were the ones that would matter, he knew.  Those were the ones he cared to impress. 

Arwan he would intimidate. 

“Is that the best you can do?” he asked with a laugh much like his old, high-pitched giggle.  

Arwan’s green horned face went purple with rage. Although the red light overlaid his expression with a demonic visage, Rumplestiltskin didn’t even flinch.  To show weakness in this place would mean—well, not death, for they were already dead, but eternity spent as someone’s puppet, someone’s slave.  Rumplestiltskin had never once allowed himself to become that, and he would not start now. 

“You’ll pay for that, Spinner,” Arwan spat, making Rumplestiltskin snort.  Clearly, Zoso had shared the tale of his own death and said nothing complimentary about him.  That, and Zoso’s opening remarks, explained why Arwan naturally assumed he would buckle under even the slightest bit of pressure. 

“I very much doubt that,” Rumplestiltskin replied.  Instinct screamed a warning, then, and he sidestepped to the left, magic tingling on his fingers and reaching out.  The sweep of his left hand sent another Dark One flying away.  Was this one some ally of Arwan’s, or another who sought to put the newcomer in his place? 

Rumplestiltskin turned to look at a giant of a man, slow of wit and swift of foot.  The huge monster—complete with shaggy hair, brown scaled skin, and a bear-like appearance—lay sprawled where he’d been thrown, looking at the smaller man like he’d never seen anything like him before.  Clearly his attacks were not often sidestepped, but there had never been anything wrong with Rumplestiltskin’s reflexes, and if physical intimidation was common down here, he wanted nothing to do with it. He had received more than enough beatings during his days as the town coward, and would suffer no one to do so ever again. 

Power was worth nothing if you could not protect that which mattered to you, and all Rumplestiltskin cared about down here in the vault was himself. Belle and Bae—and Henry, too—were safe in the world above.  He could do nothing for them, and thinking about those he loved would do him no favors.  He could become the Dark One down here, and nothing but.  Manipulate and divide, use his intelligence and his learning to run circles around the fools amongst his predecessors.  Those who were not fools he would ally with or find another solution for; this was a game that he knew well and had long since mastered.  There were no regrets down here, nothing save darkness— 

And yet Rumplestiltskin had become more than the sum of his curse.  Had he not done so, he would never have been able to kill himself, and that knowledge made his heart twist into a knot.  Yes, he still had a heart.  How true was that for the others down here? 

“Clumsy,” he commented, looking at the Dark One—Bordenbleux of Arendelle?—who had to be of at least some giant blood.  That one had not lasted long before Arwan had bested him.  Arwan had already been a sorcerer of no mean power, and Bordenbleux had been glad to be rid of the curse.  Now, he appeared to spend eternity as his successors’ henchman, never to be free of his murderer. 

That was the vicious nature of the vault, Rumplestiltskin mused darkly.  Not only were they doomed to spend eternity in utter darkness, but they were also sentenced to share that eternity with their own murderers.  _Even me._  

“I don’t suggest trying that again,” he told Bordenbleux, a smile flirting with his lips.  “Loyalty to this one is not worth the price you’ll pay.” 

Let them wonder what price he would exact.  They all had sufficient imagination to dream up something horrible.

 

*************

 

Two further confrontations later, a few things were clear to Rumplestiltskin’s compatriots in the vault.  Firstly, even though he’d chosen to maintain his human form, he was as amoral and hard-edged as the rest of them.  Secondly, he _did_ have the dagger, which gave him an external source of power none of them could touch—and trying to take the dagger from him resulted in immediate and ferocious pain.  Rumplestiltskin had never been terribly fond of torturing someone simply for the sake of doing so, but he was certainly not above inflicting pain to prove a point.  Killing any of the other Dark Ones was impossible, but hurting them was not, and as Rumplestiltskin quickly discovered, the black ooze dripping down from the ceiling caused far more damage than the random fireballs coming out of the walls.  The black ooze was liquefied darkness in its purest and most vicious form, and it caused burns that took hours— _days?_ —to heal.  

Time was nearly impossible to measure in the vault.  The ambient red light remained constant, and the curse ensured that none of them needed to sleep, so Rumplestiltskin could not even measure passing time with fatigue.  He hadn’t been wearing a watch when he killed Pan, but Rumplestiltskin suspected that, even if he had, it would have done no good.  Time was meaningless in the vault, possibly stopped or possibly not running at all.  Oh, the others spoke of being down there for ‘x’ amount of years each, but it seemed that they only counted the years based upon when their newest member had died.  They seemed more interested in judging others based upon how long they had been the Dark One—and none of them were pleased to find that Rumplestiltskin topped that list, too. 

He hadn’t expected to.  So little information was available on the curse he’d taken on so blindly that Rumplestiltskin assumed his own three hundred years were at least typical.  He shouldn’t have, however.  Judging from the numbers his more helpful compatriots provided—Bordenbleux had become his silent shadow ever since he’d wrested the hairy giant from Arwan’s control, and knew a surprising amount—most Dark Ones lasted perhaps two generations.  A few lived longer, but Arwan was another anomaly.  Between the Horned King and Rumplestiltskin, they had owned the curse for more than a full third of its existence, and that had been a fact Rumplestiltskin had not anticipated.  

Nor had he really expected the variety amongst his predecessors.  Bordenbleux, once free of his terror of the man who had killed him, reminded Rumplestiltskin of Dove in odd ways, a gentle giant who intimidated others because it was expected of him, not because he enjoyed doing so.  Bordenbleux was a man of few words, too, most of which were mumbled out from behind the beastly face he seemed somewhat ashamed of.  He’d been one of those who had been tricked into becoming the Dark One, following hard on the heels of Rasputin, who had—like Zoso—been trapped by his curse and those who claimed mastery over the dagger, and was finally desperate for a way out.  Rasputin’s ruse had not been nearly so clever as Zoso’s, but then it hadn’t had to be.  He’d simply found Bordenbleux, the half-dumb, half-giant hard worker who gutter trash bullied, and given Bordenbleux a way to avenge himself upon those who hurt him and killed his sister. 

The curse had enhanced Bordenbleux’s intelligence a little bit, but it really hadn’t needed to.  Everyone in Arendelle had thought him stupid, but Bordenbleux had really just been quiet.  His tenure as the Dark One had been so short that Rumplestiltskin sometimes wondered if Rasputin had already been in league with Arwan and simply looking for an intermediary to carry the curse while the other already-powerful sorcerer prepared, but even if that had not been the case, Bordenbleux had paid the price. 

And the giant man was now bristling as Rasputin approached, a bear-like growl sounding deep in his throat.  A miniscule amount of kindness had won Bordenbleux to Rumplestiltskin’s side—that, and protection from the others, who were physically but not magically intimidated by the half-giant—but there were others he wanted to ally with, or manipulate, and it would do no good if Bordenbleux attempted to chase them all away.  

“Enough, friend,” Rumplestiltskin murmured, his eyes already on Rasputin.  “Let him say his piece.” 

On a scale of clever to stupid, Rasputin clearly rated somewhere above brilliant, and Rumplestiltskin was fascinated to see that the other trickster sought him out first.  Of all his predecessors’ methods, Rumplestiltskin’s own probably bore the most resemblance to this man’s, although he’d never been tempted to play at being the power behind a throne.  But he could admire the use of subtlety above power, even if it had failed Rasputin in the end.  His carnal love for his Queen had been turned against him when the woman had stolen the dagger, and then he had found himself a slave to three generations of monarchs before he’d managed to trick Bordenbleux into stealing the weapon that “would keep people from ever hurting him again.” 

Rasputin drifted closer, his movements reminding Rumplestiltskin of a nervous rodent.  Tall and narrow, Rasputin was built like a lamp post, with a pointed face that reminded him of nothing more than an ill-shaped lantern.  Beady eyes stared out of a pale and scaled face; Rasputin’s features had clearly tried to arrive at a compromise between human and monster, and embraced neither.  His black hair was wild, and his beard tangled; Rumplestiltskin did not recall the other Dark One looking so out of sorts before, so why the change?  

He’d retreated to a shadowy alcove after his last encounter with Arwan, leaving the Horned King bleeding in puddle of black ooze and seeking out some solitude for himself.  Near as Rumplestiltskin could guess, that had been several hours previously—or, at least enough time for the others to decide that no one else wanted to challenge him at the moment.  Sekhmet, a tall, dusky-scaled and skinned woman, had preceded Arwan, and although Rumplestiltskin had dealt with her a little less viciously, he’d not exactly been kind.  Sekhmet had attempted to stab him with a piece of stone clearly (and cleverly) sharpened out of the very rock walls around them, a weapon Rumplestiltskin now owned, much to its creator’s fury. 

He was slowly working out the pecking order in this place.  Arwan had clearly been on top—or at least thought he was; there were several outsiders whose positions remained murky at best—and Sekhmet had been not far below him.  Rumplestiltskin’s current visitor, Rasputin, fell somewhere in the middle, far above Bordenbleux and Zoso, and yet below the two who had challenged Rumplestiltskin.  He didn’t _think_ Rasputin was here to challenge him, but if he was, the taller man was going to find himself in for a world of hurt. 

Rumplestiltskin might not have _enjoyed_ causing pain, but he was perfectly capable of doing so. 

“What can I do for you, dearie?” he asked, not bothering to pitch his voice up a notch or two.  His normal human voice seemed to unnerve the others far more than any amount of imp-like posturing could, so for now Rumplestiltskin kept to his Storybrooke form.  He had, however, exchanged his custom-tailored suit for a set of far more practical leathers, much like he’d worn in Neverland.  Expensive suits, after all, were not made for environments like this. 

Rasputin’s quick little eyes flickered left, and then right, up and then down, looking everywhere but at Rumplestiltskin.  For a man who had dictated a kingdom’s fate for four generations and had possessed untold power, he certainly possessed an interestingly nervous tick.  

“An alliance,” the stick-like Dark One finally said.  

“Now, why would I want that?” Rumplestiltskin asked, leaning back against one of the rock walls, careful to pick a spot where there was currently no black ooze dripping.  

“It’s to your advantage to ally with me,” Rasputin wheedled, his snake like expression only highlighted by the way he strung the words together in a hiss.   “Most of these fools are creatures of brute power, not subtlety.   You need someone who knows the lay of the land, who can… _help_ you navigate these rapids.” 

The not-so-subtle attempt to manipulate him made Rumplestiltskin laugh.  So far, he’d stuck with demonstrating power himself—carefully utilized and applied with laser-like precision, but power all the same.  He’d kept his own manipulative tendencies in check, preferring to quietly watch and wait.  After all, he had a lifetime in the Vault ahead of him, and although Rumplestiltskin fully intended to be _the_ power that mattered in their private hell, he was willing to establish himself slowly.  Rasputin, he gathered, though clever and manipulative, was not so patient.  He was probably the smartest one in this private hellhole of theirs—possibly smarter than Rumplestiltskin, though he’d not go so far as to assume that was the case—and was used to his intelligence outclassing everyone else’s.  

“How so?” he asked quietly, studying the other sorcerer.  Unlike many in the vault, Rasputin _was_ a true sorcerer, and although his vast knowledge of magic wouldn’t serve him any better than it would serve Rumplestiltskin here, the fact that he’d bothered to learn magic to augment his power said a lot about him. 

Rasputin smiled.  “If you have to ask, you need my help.” 

Oh, he _was_ clever.  Now the question became: to play him or to play this straight? 

“I know what you’re doing, dearie,” he replied coolly, looking his much-elder counterpart in the eye.  Which Dark One had Rasputin been?  Fragmented memories told him that the whipcord thin man fell early on, sixth or seventh, maybe?  “Not that I terribly mind, but it _does_ take one to know one, if you know what I mean.” 

Clearly, Rasputin did not; all he got was a puzzled look in exchange for the quip.  Apparently sayings from the Land Without Magic _had_ come to color Rumplestiltskin’s speech patterns a little bit.  Rasputin’s confusion quickly turned into a frown.  “I am not—” 

“Of course you aren’t.  Nor have I _ever_ been guilty of manipulating someone into doing my bidding.”  Rumplestiltskin smiled thinly.  “So if you’re going to dance this dance, you’re going to do it on my terms.  Understood?” 

“Answer me one question first,” Rasputin hissed, but all the while, Rumplestiltskin could see intelligence whirling behind the rage in his eyes.  “Do you truly possess the dagger, or are you playing these fools already?” 

A low laugh escaped before he could think better of stopping it; Rumplestiltskin just smiled.  He’d refused to answer that question seven times already—from six different Dark Ones—and had no desire to _prove_ that he remained in possession of the one item that had once slain each of them.  Truth be told, Rumplestiltskin had no idea what it would do to any of them if they were stabbed here, in the vault, but he was quite certain that he wasn’t the only one wondering.  Arwan, for example, would have probably tried to kill everyone else by now, whereas Rasputin was probably more interested in it as a power source. 

The dagger was the ultimate way to tip the scales in the vault, Rumplestiltskin had realized quickly.  No one else had access to any power outside what existed in here, and while he couldn’t access the entirety of the curse—much of it seemed stuck in the real world, or perhaps powering the vault itself—holding the dagger _did_ mean that Rumplestiltskin could summon up more power than most of the others combined.   He was careful about using it, and had so far only called upon magic resident in the vault itself, but Rumplestiltskin knew the dagger was his hole card…and that the others might actually form an alliance to take it from him if he didn’t build up his own power first.  Such an alliance would never last, but he would certainly not benefit from one forming at all. 

That, after all, was why he was still talking to Rasputin, why he had bothered to pry Bordenbleux away from Arwan, and why he was planning to approach the quiet watcher who no one else seemed willing to talk to.  

“Does it truly matter?” he answered Rasputin. 

“ _Yes._ ” 

“Then I’ll have to leave you to wonder,” Rumplestiltskin replied, but one manipulator to another, that answer was _yes_.  He had the dagger, and no one would take it from him. 

“Of course you will,” Rasputin snapped, but it was only for show.  There was much about the long-dead schemer Rumplestiltskin knew he would not like, but they were now allies of a sort.  Understanding flashed between them as their gazes locked, one Machiavelli to another.  “Don’t expect a lie to save you, _spinner_.” 

“Oh, I don’t.  And my name is Rumplestiltskin.”  He kept his tone playfully arrogant in response to Rasputin’s obvious anger, but the silent communication was far different. 

“Games won’t save you, either, no matter what you call yourself.”  _Not unless you play them better than anyone else, anyway,_ was what Rasputin meant. 

Rumplestiltskin laughed.  “Do I sense a hint of jealousy, dearie?”  _Your offer is accepted._  

“Hardly,” Rasputin snorted.  _Let them think what they will._  

“Do be off before I have Bordenbleux do something utterly…un-regrettable to you,” he said airily.  _I prefer to do my own dirty work, but I won’t save you from the man you tricked into killing you, not unless you prove_ very _useful._  

Snarling, Rasputin departed, striding off to the corner he called his own and exchanging barbs with one of the women as he went.  Was that Muriel?  There was an obvious relationship between her and Rasputin, not friendship but perhaps something less insidious than hatred.   He’d need to watch that, and keep track of if Muriel would become an ally or an enemy with Rasputin on his side.  _As much as anyone in this place is on anyone else’s side, anyway,_ Rumplestiltskin mused.   _I think Bordenbleux is the only one amongst us who actually_ wants _to be loyal to something other than himself…and that is only because he thinks it’s easier than standing up for himself._  

Yet Rumplestiltskin was not incapable of gratitude, and he had always believed in taking care of those who were loyal to him, from Dove to Jefferson to a half dozen others he’d employed over the centuries.  But he sensed that none of the others down here shared that trait of his.  An odd ball formed in Rumplestiltskin’s throat, as it always did when he contemplated how he differed from his predecessors.  So far, most of them had _not_ caught on to his remarks about having brought their curse down with him; they assumed he was being facetious and no idea what he had actually done.  There had been a reason, after all, that Rumplestiltskin had kept that magic-blocking cuff on.  He’d known that their curse would not let him kill himself, no matter who he intended to take down with him. 

Had the curse of the Dark One been so kind, he had no doubt that a good third of his predecessors would have chosen that road.  _“My life is such a burden,”_ Zoso had said to him when Rumplestiltskin had killed him.  And even Rasputin had not been the first who’d tricked another into ending his life.  No, that tradition had started much, _much_ earlier. 

Would he have ever chosen that path, had he less to live for?  Now Rumplestiltskin would never know.


	2. Chapter 2

“A word, spinner?” a familiar voice said from behind Rumplestiltskin, just as the younger Dark One stepped out of one of the many caverns in their private hell.  He’d nearly finished exploring the darkest recesses of the vault, finding—as all the others were quick to tell him triumphantly—that there was no way out and nothing remarkable inside any of the many crevices.  Of course, he’d not expected there to be an escape route, nor had Rumplestiltskin anticipated finding any great treasure trove or creature comforts, but he had been curious to see what was there.  He _had_ spotted a doorway, cleverly disguised by magic that tasted oddly different from everything else in the place, but Rumplestiltskin had left it well enough alone for now.  He already had his suspicions concerning who was responsible for that bit of subterfuge, and it would not do to tip his hand so early. 

“Not if you keep calling me that,” he replied coolly, turning to face Zoso.  Typical that his predecessor would seek him out here, away from the others.  Zoso fancied himself a trickster, good at blending in and showing people what they wanted to see. 

“Rumplestiltskin, then, if you prefer.” 

Crossing his arms, he looked up at the taller man, remembering the first time he’d seen this face—oh, not the ‘poor beggar’ he’d taken pity on; Zoso didn’t wear _that_ face here—and how afraid he had been.  Now, however, Rumplestiltskin didn’t feel so much as a flicker of that terror.  He’d grown and he’d changed from the spinner Zoso had tricked, and he was more _powerful_ than this man. 

“I do.”  He knew that his having kept his human face unnerved his predecessor; over the past ten days, or so near as he could guess the time had been, anyway, Zoso had shot him more than one odd look.  So had many of the others, but Zoso was the most curious, knowing what he did.  Rumplestiltskin could practically hear him asking himself the question: why would _any_ Dark One, let alone one who had lived longer than even Arwan, choose to appear as the weak human he’d once been? 

“You look like the coward,” Zoso said.  _Blunt object of power,_ Rumplestiltskin categorized him judgmentally. 

“And you look like a frightening monster.  Funny how neither of us measures up to expectations,” Rumplestiltskin retorted, turning a vicious smile on his predecessor, letting his eyes dance. 

Ten days in, and none of them had bested him yet.  He’d gathered a few allies, and slowly but surely, Rumplestiltskin was working his subtle way to the top.   Sekhmet had tried, just that ‘morning’, to defeat him, and though Rumplestiltskin had been forced to draw upon the dagger’s powers, he’d been able to crush his opponent.  He’d been wandering caves for over three hours (he’d created a magic timepiece to track hours because he couldn’t bear the not knowing), and Sekhmet’s screams had only just now stopped.  Arwan had stood back and watched it happen, watched his onetime rival suffer and twitch with a curious expression.  The Horned King would be slightly more difficult to overcome, but Rumplestiltskin was willing to be patient. For now, he would take out the next most powerful opponent, and create a faction to oppose Arwan’s. 

There was something truly terrifying in a man with the ability to torture someone from a distance, Rumplestiltskin knew.  And someone who didn’t care enough to enjoy watching his own handiwork play out was even worse.  Rumplestiltskin had walked away while his spells worked Sekhmet over, showing that the vicious female Dark One really was not worth his attention at all.  _No wonder Zoso has come to me, now.  He’s been on the bottom of the pecking order here for three hundred years, and he wants to move up._  

The fact that Zoso had to come to him for that was intensely amusing.  There was something of a tradition in this place where each Dark One eventually forced their murderer to pay his or her ‘dues’ for the gaining the curse—as if it was some prize to be treasured, or some victory won.  Yet Rumplestiltskin understood each of his predecessors’ obsessions with the power; not wanting to let go was inherent in the curse itself.  Power was intoxicating, as he well knew.  Even the ones that had wanted to die at the time later came to regret that decision, particularly once they realized that they would be stuck in this vault for all eternity.  None of them had known that ahead of time, Rumplestiltskin knew.  He certainly hadn’t. 

Zoso held his hands up in a placating gesture that looked false, even to someone whose only encounter with him had been on the receiving end of a clever trick.  “I’m not here to pick a fight.” 

“Aren’t you now?  That seems to be a bit of a tradition around here.”  Rumplestiltskin twirled a hand, feeling more like the imp than usual.  “Though if you’re looking for me to be weakened by that display, you’re going to have to wait for something more interesting.” 

“It never crossed my mind.” 

“Of course it didn’t.”  _Liar._   He didn’t have to call the other Dark One out, though; Zoso clearly heard the sarcasm. 

“How _did_ you bring the dagger through, anyway?” Zoso demanded, lurching forward into Rumplestiltskin’s personal space.  The move was meant to be intimidating, and as a large man, it had probably worked well for Zoso over the years.  

But Rumplestiltskin had used the same trick, too, and knew that you didn’t have to be _big_ to frighten someone.  You just had to be frightening.  So he smiled. 

“I’m afraid that’s my little secret.” 

Zoso scowled.  “You said that our curse had come with you.  Explain.” 

Of course Zoso would remember.  The man was no fool, and he had been right there to greet his successor—another tradition, Rumplestiltskin guessed—when he’d arrived.  Zoso, unlike the others, had been close enough to actually _see_ the dagger Rumplestiltskin had been holding.  He’d probably even seen the blood on it, actually, Rumplestiltskin and Malcolm’s both.  Most of the others had decided that the dagger’s presence _must_ have been some clever trick, or perhaps some quirk of the curse that they had forgotten.  Believing that was certainly easier than believing the alternative, but apparently Zoso was cut from a different cloth. 

Either that, or Zoso had chosen his replacement more carefully than Rumplestiltskin had previously given him credit for.  

“Now, why ever would I want to do that, dearie?” he asked, just to see how Zoso would react. 

“Because otherwise I’ll tell the lot of them what you are.” 

Rumplestiltskin snorted.  “And what’s that?” 

“A coward, through and through,” Zoso smirked.  “Foolish and uneducated, and quick to make a deal you don’t understand.” 

“That I may have been, but do you truly think that after three centuries as the Dark One that would still be the case?” Rumplestiltskin turned to face his predecessor.  “You chose me because I was too desperate to wonder what the _price_ of this curse is—or even to realize that this power we’ve shared was a curse at all.  But you don’t really think I’ve stayed that way, do you?  You taught me a valuable lesson that day.  One I never forgot.” 

Zoso’s eyes narrowed.  “Yet here you are.  Doomed for eternity like the rest of us.  Not so superior now, are you?” 

“I arrived on my terms,” Rumplestiltskin replied with a shrug.  _And I saved those I love._ He would never see Belle or Bae again, but the knowledge that his sacrifice had saved their lives would sustain him throughout this horrible eternity.  It would have to.  “And by my choice.” 

“Then you’ll have no problems sharing the dagger with the rest of us, will you?” the larger man pressed, his smile only growing more ferocious. 

Too late, instinct screamed a warning—and then magic slammed into Rumplestiltskin, all darkness and fury, pain and eternity.  Too late, he realized exactly what this place could be, precisely what every one of his predecessors had suffered upon their arrival.  This wasn’t only Zoso’s power attacking him; it was also Arwan’s, and several others’ who Rumplestiltskin could not identify through the sudden haze of pain and despair.  The most basic foundation of magic was emotion, and there was nothing good in the emotions of his fellow captives, not in this place.  They were trapped and hated it, caged and snapping at the bars.  The gust of magic threw him backwards, straight into one of the larger rock pillars.  Immediately, the black ooze seeping down the rock dripped onto him, making contact with flesh and _burning_. 

Rumplestiltskin screamed in pain and surprise, magic from five Dark Ones hammering into him and holding him hard against the rock as chains snaked out to bind him there.  Four shadowy figures stepped out from behind Zoso, their scaled faces vicious and victorious in the eerie red light and magic twisting violently around Rumplestiltskin.  The chains that bound him were red hot, burning into the fragile human skin he still wore and yanking his limbs away from one another.  The darkness was suffocating, and when an additional piece of smoldering metal cropped out from the stone to wrap around his neck, Rumplestiltskin choked out a wail.  It held him in place so that the black ooze could come down to cover his face. 

The ooze burned worse than any of the chains, and it made Rumplestiltskin scream wildly, convulsing against his bonds.  Meanwhile, their magic sped over him, searching out pressure points and weaknesses.  This is what they did to every newcomer, he realized.  This was the test, the establishment of dominance, and the first moves of the greater game of power.  He’d avoided this moment in his first days in the Vault because Rumplestiltskin had been able to sidestep the initial confrontations with a display of power.  Fool that he was, he had assumed that because he’d managed to pass the initial tests so easily, the others would not try something like this. 

They had to know it would fail, that he had access to power they did not, and that—another wave of power smashed into him, and Rumplestiltskin screeched again, the others’ magic combining with the black ooze to coat him in utter darkness.  Its claws reached into him immediately, razor sharp and tipped with evil, tearing into the sliver of soul that Rumplestiltskin had long since preserved for himself, the soul of the spinner who had taken on this terrible curse to save his beloved son, the soul of the man who had fallen for a woman who believed he could be better than his curse.  He’d somehow protected his heart from the curse for three long centuries, but now the black ooze slipped inside cuts on his chest that the others’ magic had opened, reaching for the very heart he had spent so long shielding— 

Reaching for the heart that had allowed him to kill himself, that had let him remain _Rumplestiltskin_ despite centuries as the Dark One.  The darkness, the vault itself, didn’t appreciate the successful way he’d fought back any more than the curse ever had, and now his predecessors’ actions unleashed its evil upon him.  He felt the blackness sizzling into his veins like acid, burning in deeply and choking off Rumplestiltskin’s attempts to reach his magic, to reach the curse, to fight back.  _This_ was the darkness.  This was the vault, the ultimate price of being the Dark One.  

This was the moment when the curse devoured his soul once and for all. 

No, he would not allow this to happen.  Rumplestiltskin would not end like this. He had fought the curse for three hundred years, had made it serve his purposes and refused to be its creature.  He would _not_ lose himself to it now, no matter where he was or how much pain was racing through him.  The others could hammer him, could make him scream himself hoarse with pain, but he would _wait._   They had the upper hand at the moment, but Rumplestiltskin had time on his side.  He didn’t like pain, didn’t like screaming his lungs out while the ooze ate his skin away and dove for internal organs, but nothing down here could kill him.  They could make him hurt until he wished for death, but they couldn’t actually kill him anymore than he could kill them. 

Still, chained against a rock pillar and convulsing in pain was not the way he’d wanted to spend eternity…and if he wasn’t careful, this was where they would leave him.  Minutes or hours ticked by—maybe days—while the combined power (stored and kept for this moment, he realized belatedly; Rumplestiltskin had done too good of a job of intimidating the others, and now these four had united against him) lashed at him, and eventually Rumplestiltskin lost the energy to scream.  Only then did they let up, with Zoso leaned in close. 

Was this his plan, his way of moving up the totem pole?  Zoso clearly wanted into the club of the top few who possessed power, so now he stood in between Arwan and Sthenno, with Dallben and Hecate flanking those two.  These four were the most powerful down here aside from Sekhmet, who Rumplestiltskin had left in dire straits earlier—much like the these Dark Ones had now put him in—and the old man who stuck to the shadows and associated with no one.  Rumplestiltskin had already learned that Arwan and Dallben _never_ allied with one another, since they hated each other almost as much as Arwan and Taran did, and Hecate was one of the vault’s biggest loaners.  Rasputin had indicated that Hecate, his own predecessor, had no friends in the vault, and only her power kept her safe from the others.  Rumplestiltskin knew from his own observations that she was one of the more talented ones, one of the few who were deft enough to section off a bit of magic for her own use…magic she now turned on him. 

He’d been subtle in his climb to power, but apparently  Rumplestiltskin had not been subtle enough.  _Or perhaps too subtle._   There was only one thing bound to unite these five— 

“Give us the dagger, and the pain will stop,” Zoso told him, reptilian eyes glowing with victory. 

Rumplestiltskin laughed through the pain, ignoring the way his limbs spasmed and shook.  Nothing down here could kill him, and their shared curse would heal him soon enough.  “What, and trust you lot to end this?  I think not.” 

“You’re still a coward at heart, Spinner, and we both know you can only take so much pain.  Give in now, before we decide you’ll make an excellent plaything for eternity.” 

They’d do it, he knew.  If they could.  Every breath hurt, and at the moment, Rumplestiltskin’s body—and very human soul—were screaming at him to give in, to give them what they wanted just to make the pain stop.  But words were wind in this place, and promises were ash without power to enforce them. 

“Ah, why promise to stop?” Sthenno, sister of Medusa, purred, slithering forward to touch Rumplestiltskin’s burned face.  She avoided the black ooze, but he flinched anyway, feeling burned skin flake away from her fingers.  A low cry rose and then choked off, trapped in his chest from pain. “I’ve been wanting a new toy.” 

_“You made me stronger,”_ he had told Belle before he’d sent himself to this horrid place.  But knowing he’d never see her again made that strength so much harder to cling to.  Unbidden, her face flashed before his eyes, devastated and broken, and he knew that she would never be the same again. 

He missed her.   He missed her more than he’d ever thought possible, more than he thought his stained and battered heart could bear.  How _had_ Belle forced her way behind the walls of someone so dark as he, so dark as the others who now enjoyed his pain?  Rumplestiltskin might have kept a part of his soul for himself, but it had never been enough.  He was one of them.  He was the Dark One, and had been for every moment of his life that meant anything in this place.  Thoughts of those he loved would not make him stronger, not here.  Thinking of his life before the curse, even the good moments with  Bae, would only open the door for the weak spinner Zoso expected him to find.  _Love_ would only make him weaker in the Vault. 

“I have no objections,” Arwan replied with a shrug.  “Provided the others do not?” 

The five exchanged glances; perhaps tormenting him would unite them for a time, at least until they had to battle over the dagger.  Zoso’s rotten teeth glinted red in the dim light as he grinned. 

“Last chance, Spinner,” he spat.  “Give up the dagger.” 

Three centuries earlier, the only way to save his boy had been to embrace the darkness.  Three centuries later, the curse came full circle, and Rumplestiltskin now drew the evil to himself as he had then, letting the darkness fill his soul.  Preserving a part of his soul would do him no favors in the Vault, Rumplestiltskin realized.  Here, he had to be the Dark One, or he would just become some toy to suffer for the others’ amusement.  The tattered remnants of his humanity had become a handicap the moment he used them to kill himself. 

So the Dark One he would be. 

Reaching deep into the curse, deep into that connection he had with the dagger he’d hidden, Rumplestiltskin lashed out, slashing pure darkness at the others and forcing them back with a black wave of power.  Black ooze still dripped on him, burning human skin away to replace it with golden-green scales, but that was darkness, too, so he drew on the ooze as well, the liquid darkness that could just as easily fill him as it could serve the others.  The chains holding him shattered as the other five Dark Ones fell, crying out as the pain they’d subjected him to turned on them, hammering and clawing and tearing at their bodies as it had his.  Landing lightly on his feet, Rumplestiltskin let his hands open at his sides, power filling him and repairing the damage done by the hours of torture. 

“No,” he snarled.  “I don’t think I will.” 

He had been too subtle, apparently, too patient.  But the moment their attention had wavered, the moment their magic had been distracted by the promise of _more_ pain, greater pain for an extended period of time—because pain fed the darkness as much as desperation did, and the curse within each of them was starving.  There were no true victims down here, after all.  No prey, only predators.  Newcomers were only viable food for the curse for so long, but a victim that would fight back with something _other_ than darkness made the curse itself sing for release.  These five probably did not know what made them so eager to devour Rumplestiltskin, but he recognized the hunger within the curse. 

He had fought that need for his own curse to devour him for centuries, and somehow was still fighting it now.  Embrace the darkness though he had done, a tiny flicker of light still existed within him, something better than he was.  But there was no time for that, now.  Later he would have to banish what little remained of the father who had loved, of the man who had finally embraced True Love after banishing her once.  Now he had a different role to play, so he faced his tormenters as the black ooze was absorbed by golden scales, as wild amber eyes replaced the warm brown ones Belle had loved.  Claws grew from fingers that had once held his boy’s hand, and the monster leapt out of the man. 

But even the monster preserved an image of Bae’s face, of Belle’s, inside his mind. 

Striding forward, Rumplestiltskin looked down at Zoso.  “You chose too well, dearie,” he mocked his predecessor.  “I might not have wanted the darkness, but I learned to use it, and I learned _well._ ” 

A mere flick of his fingers brought darkness crashing down into Zoso, and the wave fell like a scythe, slicing the older Dark One straight in half.  Zoso screamed, but Rumplestiltskin turned away, twirling his fingers and twisting to face the others as they scrambled to their feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he grinned at them, letting out the old high-pitched giggle.  “Did you think you might _win_?”  

Before any of the others could gather magic—dwindling rapidly as the supply in the Vault ran dry—Rumplestiltskin reached within himself, into the ooze that had forced itself into his very pores, burning as it went.  He could still feel it sizzling painfully in his veins, but it was power, and power he could use.  Rumplestiltskin didn’t even need to draw on the dagger, not with the way they’d used the ooze to torture him.  His spells lashed out, four of them, catching Arwan, Sthenno, Dallben, and Hecate each in the face with the equivalent of boiling acid.  Both men collapsed, though the women managed to stay upright even as they screamed, despite the fact that he’d used some of the ever-dripping ooze to give the spell teeth.  Still, it was intended as nothing but a distraction while he readied another wave of darkness. 

This time he drew on the dagger, listening to the curse sing within him and indulging its craving for pain.  The same dark scythe that felled Zoso ripped down upon Sthenno, Dallben, and Hecate, tearing them limb from limb and adding them to the bloody pile on the stone floor.  Zoso’s lower body had been trying to reunite with his upper half, but Sthenno’s lower left quarter landed in between them, and Rumplestiltskin heard Zoso’s scream join the others.  Arwan actually managed to dodge the scythe, blocking enough of it that his body remained battered but intact, and then wheeling to face Rumplestiltskin with murder in his eyes. 

No matter.  Rumplestiltskin had anticipated that Arwan—a sorcerer before he became the Dark One, and as talented as he was dangerous—would avoid the punishment he doled out on the others.  In fact, he had been counting on it, and Rumplestiltskin drew on his own rage and pain to transport himself to a spot right in front of the elder Dark One.  The Horned King drew back in surprise, not having known teleportation was even _possible_ within the vault.   Had Rumplestiltskin not been so furious and his fingers already curled around the hilt of the dagger, it would not have been, but he was and they were, and amber eyes glowed gold as he stepped forward.  The dagger came up, level with Arwan’s eyes, and the Horned King stared. 

Red light glinted off the blade, _Rumplestiltskin_ gleaming clear for any eye to see—and the others were watching, at least not those in a pile of limbs on the floor.  The message was plain.  The dagger was still _his_. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked quietly, his voice a cross between Gold’s most dangerous tone and the imp’s mocking sing-song.  “Is this what you thought I would _give_ you?” 

No Dark One could take the dagger, after all.  They had to force him to give it up, because the basic limitations of their curse still bound them all, even here.  The dagger could not control any of the others, and Rumplestiltskin had no desire to find out if it could still control him, but the Dark Ones could not take it any more than they could when they were each under its thrall.  Arwan’s eyes were black with fury. 

“If you don’t—” 

The threat cut off in a gurgle of blood as Rumplestiltskin shoved the dagger through Arwan’s throat, holding the Horned King still with a spell.  Twisting the dagger and listening to Arwan scream—for even this would not kill him here, not since they were already dead—Rumplestiltskin waited a moment before ripping it out.  Then he grabbed Arwan by the centermost horn, slowly and meticulously sawing the dagger through his neck until the Horned King’s body dropped out from under him. 

Rumplestiltskin held the head for a moment, and then tossed it aside carelessly, turning to face thirteen others.  Even Sekhmet was there, unsteady on her feet and looking wasted.  Even the old man was watching this, from deep in the shadows. 

“Anyone else?” he asked cheerfully, gesturing with the dagger and watching Arwan’s blood fly off the blade.  It painted an impressionistic picture on the nearby wall, one that looked vaguely like a bird. 

None of the others backed away, but none of them challenged him, either.  Something like victory glinted in Rasputin’s eyes, and Bordenbleux looked extremely satisfied, but it was the calculating gleam in the old man’s gaze that caught Rumplestiltskin’s attention.  Watching that made the curse roar up within him, demanding more blood, more pain, and more conquests, but Rumplestiltskin ruthlessly suppressed the urge to lash out further.  The old man—the original Dark One, he sensed—might indeed be a threat, but he seemed patient.  Rumplestiltskin could be the same. 

_Protect the dagger,_ the curse whispered within his mind. _Protect it at all costs._ For once, Rumplestiltskin was in full agreement with his curse.  Not even the lingering shreds of his humanity, tattered and worn though they were, could argue with that seductive whisper.  The dagger was his freedom, Rumplestiltskin knew.  So long as he held the dagger, none of the others could best him, could hurt him.  He would be as free as anyone could be in this eternity of hell, and that mattered to him in odd ways. 

Stepping away from Arwan’s body, Rumplestiltskin throttled his temper down, still feeling the painful bite of the blackness oozing through his body.  But he dared not show that weakness here, dared not let the others see him hurting.  One moment of weakness and the other thirteen would be on him—or most of them would, anyway, and even with the dagger in his hands, Rumplestiltskin doubted he could fight them all off.  But _they_ doubted that they could stop him, and so long as the illusion of power held, he had won.  Slowly, he met Bordenbleux’s eyes, and received a nod from the giant in return.  That one was still an ally, still delighted that Arwan was on the receiving end of someone else’s wrath.  Rasputin, too, seemed unlikely to ally against him; the clever manipulator was already moving over to speak to Muriel, whose green-flecked eyes watched Rumplestiltskin carefully.  Perhaps his subtlety had not been for naught, after all. 

Rumplestiltskin moved lightly away from the carnage, flicking his wrist and allowing the dagger to disappear out of his hand.  Greedy eyes followed it—either out of long habit of protecting the blade or desire for its power—and more than one Dark One snarled softly when it vanished.  Only the power inherent in the dagger itself allowed Rumplestiltskin to hide it so, but leaving it on his person was a good way to lose the dagger entirely.  He disliked wasting power like this, but he had no choice. 

There were very few choices here, after all.  Victor or victim.  Player or pawn.  Darkness…or darkness. 

Love would not serve him here, Rumplestiltskin knew.  It was time to put his grief and his longing aside, and embrace what he had always been.  Still, Rumplestiltskin reverted to his human form as he walked away from his torturers-turned-victims.  He did not need the outer mask of the monster to be the Dark One, and Rumplestiltskin had chosen to initially appear as he had been in Storybrooke.  He would not let the others force him to change anything, even that. 

Besides, he had grown attached to this face.  It was the one that his boy had loved, back before everything went wrong.

 

*************

 

The more surreal the world he inhabited was, the more the game remained the same.  Twice more over the next month, Arwan gathered allies and moved against Rumplestiltskin, but he danced ahead of that maneuver and countered it with supporters of his own.  Careful study of the eternity-shaped trap they found themselves in allowed Rumplestiltskin to try out a new trick.  He had quickly learned that he could syphon off power as easily as any of the other more skilled Dark Ones inside the Vault, yet Rumplestiltskin now took that one step further.  He saved some power for himself…and then parceled out the rest to followers who lacked the finesse to do the same for themselves. 

All in all, there were only six Dark Ones within the vault who had the ability to drain off a bit of magic for themselves, and that included both Rumplestiltskin and the old man who he was assuming was the original Dark One.  That left Arwan, Hecate, Sekhmet, and Väinämöinen.  The first three were obviously not going to ally themselves with Rumplestiltskin—although he thought he might have a chance of winning Sekhmet over, or at least encouraging her not to pit herself directly against him—but Väinämöinen was another case entirely.  He seemed interested in at least not moving _against_ Rumplestiltskin, which was enough for him at the moment.  Although the others seemed determined to destroy anyone who wasn’t _with_ them in this new alliance, Rumplestiltskin was more than happy to allow for neutrality.  In the end, that stance gained him more friends than it did enemies. 

But their shared curse was basically a selfish entity, which explained why the others were so loathe to share.  Even the allies who were against him were just as often at one another’s throats; by the end of the first month, Rumplestiltskin watched with interest as Arwan and Hecate tried very hard to kill each other, a battle that culminated with both bleeding and snarling and completely sapped of magic.  Remaining on the edges of that fight allowed Rumplestiltskin to pick up the stray bits of magic the pair lost while busy battling, secreting it away for another day, or another ally.  The basic greediness of their curse kept the other sorcerers amongst them from _giving_ power to their allies, but Rumplestiltskin quickly found that it was a way to keep them loyal.  So long as he was the ultimate source of power—and never, _ever_ gave them access to the dagger, those who flocked to him would remain loyal. 

Some of them, like Rasputin, were clever enough that their allegiance was still a secret, even once the second month drew to a close.  By then, Rumplestiltskin had a fairly good read on the men and women—fellow monsters, all of them—that he would be spending eternity with, and he had fully realized what a lonely existence this was going to be.  He had never been a terribly social creature and had been a loner since childhood, so Rumplestiltskin could cope with isolation…but he’d grown used to a less solitary existence.  That, however, was not an option.  Not anymore. 

So he tried to accept it.  Tried to accept darkness and isolation, just as he’d once told Cora that was all he had to offer.  But it was harder than Rumplestiltskin could have ever imagined.  Even when he _tried_ to fully embrace his curse, tried to let the power fill him the emptiness, that tiny sliver of soul kept coming back.  In the loneliest moments, the quiet ones where even Rumplestiltskin could find no one to manipulate, no greater game to play, his mind turned to Belle and to Bae.  Memories turned over in his mind, their faces dancing before his eyes, and it took all the self-control and darkness he could muster to keep himself from trying to sob the hurt away. 

He supposed that this was the price to be paid.  He had saved them, saved everyone, and to do it he had gone against his very nature.  Rumplestiltskin had defied fate itself, had embraced the _undoing_ that the Seeker prophesied and grabbed his destiny with both hands.  Was it worth it?  Undoubtedly.  His son and his love would live, and if he had to spend eternity wondering what had happened to them, hoping they were safe, and later, at peace, that was what he would do.  Perhaps someday the darkness could be enough to fill the holes leaving them had left in his heart. 

Until then, he would  be what he had always been.  Rumplestiltskin.  The Dark One.  

As if he had a choice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Rumplestiltskin meets the first Dark One.


	3. Part III

More time slipped by and even Rumplestiltskin’s magical timepiece started to fail in fits and starts.  Finally, he began to understand why none of the other bothered; you could never _tell_ when the timepiece was going to start stuttering, and by the time Rumplestiltskin noticed it wasn’t working properly, his own sense of time was too warped to fix it, no matter how much magic he employed.  So he finally gave in and surrendered himself to the timeless existence the others had already embraced, marking time by battles fought and blood spilled. 

His alliance was an ever-shifting thing, Rumplestiltskin realized fairly early on.  Loyalty was not a trait that many Dark Ones shared, even when it was loyalty to power.  One by one, each ally he’d assembled in the beginning turned on him, sometimes in company and other times separately.  After the first two betrayals, Rumplestiltskin no longer even pretended to be surprised; their curse was a selfish beast, and no host of it would ever recognize anyone greater than themselves.  He was no different, after all; like the others, Rumplestiltskin was determined to remain on top.  The only real difference between him and them—aside from the fact that he _was_ a more practiced sorcerer than any but Arwan and (probably) the old man—was that he had the dagger.  It still bore his name, and the entirety of the curse still answered to him.  Or at least what was left of it after he’d killed himself, anyway.  The power was muted in the Vault, but it was still enough of an advantage. 

Once, just once, Dallben, Taran, and a very fractured Tia Dalma had come close to taking the dagger from Rumplestiltskin, catching him by surprise and driving him down into a pit of oozing darkness for what felt like an eternity.  His timepiece—which had still been more or less working at that moment—told him that it had been seven days, as Prospero, Zoso, and Sekemet joined in against him.  He would have been able to break out had Hectate not signed up with his attackers at the last moment, and her power only made things worse.  They kept him under long enough that Rumplestiltskin wanted to give in, and almost did, but his nasty habit of self preservation reared its ugly head and he doggedly hung on to coherency despite the all-consuming pain.  He forced himself to be patient, forced himself to draw in the oozing darkness once more and _use_ it again, and finally Rumplestiltskin fought free of their trap. 

Still, that treatment left him reeling for days afterwards…or whatever passed for days in that place.  But he couldn’t afford to let the pain show, so Rumplestiltskin buried it in darkness after having torn Hectate and Dallben to pieces and savaged the other five badly enough that Tia Dalma was still mumbling incoherently even once Rumplestiltskin was back on his feet.  He’d found himself a corner after that debacle and barred himself in with magic, lashing out at anyone who came close until he felt well enough to face them again. 

Another indeterminable amount of time later, Arwan tried one last time—but soon enough, when Dallben turned against him, Rumplestiltskin found the Horned King his newest ally.  Keeping up with the ever-shifting alliances within the vault would have made anyone else dizzy, but with the exception of those two significant challenges,  Rumplestiltskin stayed on top of things.   The others were brilliant enough to keep him on his toes, but eventually, Rumplestiltskin knew he would start to get bored.  It might take him years, or even centuries, but he was too smart to find this confined space—and these eighteen other Dark Ones—enough of a challenge keep him occupied for all eternity.  He’d have to find a hobby of _some_ sort, but what could he do down there?  Tormenting his fellows just wasn’t fun. 

And although letting _them_ torture him certainly kept his attention, that wasn’t exactly an option, either.  

It was a miracle, Rumplestiltskin marveled, that his predecessors had not gone mad in this place.  Or perhaps they had.  _Or they were mad already_.  Of course, Rumplestiltskin was well acquainted with madness.  He’d been mad before, had felt his curse stirring within him and lashing out against its own host and scrambling the mind that contained it.  Perhaps the dilution of the curse was a good thing, then; at least it meant that the vault didn’t house nineteen Dark Ones who were even less sane than they had been in life. 

Still, enough time had passed that Rumplestiltskin was starting to grow bored.  Exploring had only taken him so far.  He’d uncovered everything there was to see…except one thing.  On his first walk around, Rumplestiltskin had noticed a doorway, cleverly disguised by magic unlike anything else in the Vault, so eight months after his arrival, Rumplestiltskin sought that doorway out, and knocked. 

Moments later, the old man stood before him.  “I was wondering when you might come,” the only other human-looking Dark One in the lot said. 

Rumplestiltskin shrugged.  “I’ve been busy.” 

“Of course you have.  Care to join me?” 

It could be a trap.  _Step through that door and doom yourself!_ the curse screamed, and suddenly Rumplestiltskin got the feeling that the curse did not much like its original host.  The darkness surged within him at that thought, that realization, and Rumplestiltskin could sense his curse railing against the very _existence_ of the wizened old man who stood in front of him.  _You are not like him!_

Except Rumplestiltskin was beginning to think that he was. 

“Oh, why not?” Another shrug brought him through the doorway, and the old man stepped aside to allow him entrance.  

Disguised as it was, Rumplestiltskin had expected something spectacular within the hidden chamber within the caves.  However, inside the old man’s haunt looked much like everything outside the doorway, lined with darkness-oozing rock walls and full of the same eerie red light.  There were a few outcroppings that almost resembled chairs, but overall the chamber was identical to the world outside the door.  _How…uninspiring,_ Rumplestiltskin thought, looking around critically.  He’d expected better, somehow. 

“Disappointed, Rumplestiltskin?” the old man asked with a very crooked smile. 

“Well, I have to admit that I expected to be more impressed.” 

The old man chuckled, a high-pitched cackle that sent a shiver down Rumplestiltskin’s spine.  “The longer you’re in the vault, lad, the more you learn that this place cannot be changed.  It was designed to be a very special sort of personal hell, after all.” 

“Personal?” Rumplestiltskin echoed, keying in on that specific word. 

“Very.”  The crooked smile became a manic grin, and Rumplestiltskin watched the old man’s blue eyes go from human to reptilian and then back to human again.  The transition was sudden, and jarring, and happened so quickly that Rumplestiltskin half-wondered if he was imagining things.  But there was more than a little insanity in the old man’s expression, enough to give Rumplestiltskin pause. 

It made sense, he supposed.  _If_ the old man was the original Dark One, he had been created here, at the vault.  And if the curse had been created to be passed on the way it was, then this place might have been created to contain _this_ man.  But why? 

“Who _are_ you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. 

“The Dark One.  Are you someone else?” 

That made him blink.  “Rumplestiltskin.” 

“That’s just your name, lad.  What you were.  Not what you are,” the old man countered immediately, wiggling a little bit.  But the insanity in his eyes seemed to have faded somewhat, and Rumplestiltskin got the feeling that the wiggle was just for show. 

So he took a chance, and decided to be honest.  After all, every Dark One within the vault knew that the old man stayed out of every fight, and no one had been stupid enough to try to take him one since Arwan had arrived.  Six other Dark Ones had died between the Horned King and Rumplestiltskin, and over six hundred years in the outside world with them.  But during all that time, no one had so much as dreamed of trying to attack the old man. 

“No.  It isn’t,” Rumplestiltskin answered.  “Not for a long time.” 

“Then you’ve not been under the curse for long?” the old man asked curiously. 

A snort of laughter bubbled up—quiet and not the old high giggle—before he could stop it. “Over three hundred years.” 

“Either you are lying, or you discovered something.”  The blue eyes were nearly black now, narrowed and dangerous.  Power crackled beneath the surface, power of a type Rumplestiltskin had never felt before—something deep and something terrifying, absolutely mind-boggling in its intensity.  This power was more than magic, didn’t come from the curse and certainly did not come from the vault.  Apparently, Rumplestiltskin was not the only Dark One who was more than met the eye. 

_Yeah, I discovered something.  Or something discovered me,_ Rumplestiltskin didn’t say.   _True Love_.  Just thinking about it made Belle’s face come to mind, made him think of Bae, and a painful ache blossomed in his heart.  It took everything Rumplestiltskin had to hide the utter _longing_ that swept through him, to bury it within the darkness that he had to embrace in order to survive.  Oh, he wanted so much more than to spend eternity in this miserable prison.  But then, he’d always wanted things he couldn’t have, hadn’t he? 

“Well, I’ve always liked to think of myself as special,” he replied noncommittally, watching fury dance across the old man’s features.  For a moment, Rumplestiltskin thought that the power rearing up might reach out for him, and started wondering if the curse was something he _could_ use to defend himself against that—because this man was more than just the Dark One that he claimed to be. 

Not for the first time, Rumplestiltskin wished that the origins of his curse were not so shrouded in mystery.  During three hundred years of research, he’d found tidbits on some of his predecessors, tantalizing pieces of information that were more often legend than not.  But nothing on this man.  No one knew who the first Dark One had been, how the curse had been created, _if_ it had been created, or even when it had happened.  Even his fellows here in the vault didn’t seem to know who the old man was, and that was more than a little disturbing. 

Surprisingly, however, the old man laughed instead of lashing out, and his temper seemed to subside.  Abruptly, a smile replaced the obvious fury.  “I think you might be.” 

Watching emotions whip through his elder was like riding a drunken seesaw, and Rumplestiltskin’s chest tightened ominously.  Now he understood why the others stayed clear of this man.  He was _dangerous._   Unbidden, the whispers in his mind grew louder.  _Keep the dagger away from him at all costs.  Do not trust him!_   A chill ran down Rumplestiltskin’s spine. 

Even the curse was afraid of him. 

“And you?” Rumplestiltskin countered without missing a beat, refusing to show weakness or worry.  

“Broken,” was the immediate response, terrifying in its honesty.  “Not special.  Never that.” 

A shadow of old pain crossed the old man’s face, and Rumplestiltskin _wondered_.  What must it have been like to be the first Dark One?  He’d more than half expected the original curse holder to be a literal demon, a scaled and hard-edged monster from which they all descended, to be the owner of the whispers in his mind.  But this man was human, or at least appeared to be and had once been ( _Hadn’t he?_ ).  Shaggy and tangled gray hair hung down past the middle of the old man’s back, and he wore the traditional long beard of a sorcerer in one messy braid.  This was the face that he associated with himself, broken though that self-image sometimes was by reptilian eyes that went purely black when angry.  A few scales dotted pockmarked skin, mostly around the edges of his wild beard and bristly sideburns.  This was a man stuck between what he had been and what he was forced to be. 

_Forced?_   That was a new revelation, and Rumplestiltskin wondered where it had come from even as he refused to doubt its authenticity.  Had it come from the residual memories he had inherited via the curse, or was the old man up to something? 

There was no way to tell.  Sometimes, however, the best way to get an answer was to _not_ ask the question, so Rumplestiltskin remained silent and waited for the old man to damn himself.  After all, if the others steered so clear of him, how long had it been since the old man had anyone to talk to?  The others feared him, and Rumplestiltskin was not such a fool that he did not, but he was unbearably curious.  And besides, what was the worst the old man could do to him?  _He could take the dagger!_ the voice of the curse screamed in his mind, but Rumplestiltskin ruthlessly suppressed that surge of fear.  Different or no, the old man was bound by the same rules as Rumplestiltskin and the others.  He couldn’t take the dagger.  If he wanted it, he would have to force Rumplestiltskin to give it up. 

And there was nothing in this place that could make him do that.  Nothing at all, not now, not with those he loved forever lost to him.  _Don’t think of them.  Love_ is _weakness in this place._  

“I’m what she made of me,” the old man finally continued, sounding empty. 

“She?” Rumplestiltskin echoed. 

“Danns' a'Bhàis, of course.”  Hatred, loss, and longing whipped across his face; Rumplestiltskin felt like he’d left the seesaw and hitched a ride on a drunken carousel instead.  _‘Round and round the Dark Ones go, where they’ll stop, no one knows…_  

But his agile mind translated the name quickly enough, and then whirled through centuries’ worth of study and knowledge.  Once, Rumplestiltskin had made it his life’s work to read every book on magic, magical theory, and magical history that had ever been written.  Then, when less than three decades had passed completing that endeavor, he read them a second time.  And then again.  He might have built Belle a library in the Dark Castle— _Don’t think of her!  It will only break your heart_ —but the books had always been there, shoved into nooks and crannies, storage and shelves, scattered all over the castle and awaiting his magical call.  He’d just organized them for her, shared his most precious possessions (his only companions for so many centuries) with the girl who had stolen his heart. 

_Don’t think about that._  

Flipping through page after page of memories brought him to the right conclusion.  Danns' a'Bhàis.  _Dance of Death._   Rumplestiltskin’s eyes snapped up to meet those of the original Dark One.  “The Black Fairy?” 

“Is she out again?  I understand Ruel Ghorm exiled her some centuries ago.”  Was that a flicker of hope in the old man’s eyes, or fear? 

“No.  No one has seen her for close to a millennia.”  But Rumplestiltskin had held her wand, twice now, and he had felt the residual power within it.  And then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks, slamming into Rumplestiltskin hard enough to make him rock back on his heels. 

_Broken.  It’s what she made of me._  

“ _She_ did this.” The words ground out, tasting like acid in his mouth.  “This was no accident.  No natural occurrence or magical consequence.  The Black Fairy _made_ this curse.” 

The old man smiled sadly, madly.  “Who else?” 

Fury blossomed within Rumplestiltskin even as the curse shied away in fear.  He had always assumed that the curse was a price to be paid, perhaps the price for humanity’s lust for power or even for magic itself.  He had never really thought that any being, no matter how powerful, would _want_ to shoehorn such darkness into a human shell, would want to doom someone to the anger and rage and power and pain that being the Dark One was.  Oh, so many of them had taken the curse on willingly, some even _knowingly_ , but not one of them truly understood the price until they had already brought it crashing down upon themselves.  The Black Fairy had done this, _made them_ , meticulously and purposefully.  And _she_ had made them controllable, ever a slave to the dagger, no matter how hard they fought. 

Then she had made this place, too.  A personal hell, the old man had called it.  For him, or for all of them? 

Words died on his lips as he stared at the old man; as their eyes met, the shadow of old memories flashed between them.  _A demon—_ an elemental demon of darkness, Rumplestiltskin’s years of study filled in— _raging over the prone form of a man.  A man (old already, bearded and gray, but not frazzled and frayed; no, then, he’d cared about his appearance) fighting and losing and yet not dying, screaming in pain as the curse and the demon were forced into him.  Bit by bit,  she worked her magic and her pain, binding them together and to the dagger.  Slowly, a name etched itself into the blade_ — 

“You see now,” the old man said, his voice high and singing in the way Rumplestiltskin’s so often did when he embraced his inner monster.  “You see.” 

No, he didn’t.  Not really.  But power swirled around them, between them, and it was the echo of something far greater than anything any Dark One had ever been.  _Greater,_ not darker, the remnant of something extraordinary that the Black Fairy had destroyed to make her curse. 

“Who _are_ you?” he asked again, the vision having snapped aside before he could see the name on the dagger. 

“No one, now.”  The old man turned away.  “Just the Dark One.  Danns saw to that.”  His voice dropped to a whisper, broken and sad, and thick with betrayal.  “I escaped it once, you know, only to find myself here.  Convinced Tia Dalma to kill me, though she never knew what she was in for.  Then Danns called the dagger and when she was tired of her ‘new’ Dark One, she forced Tia Dalma to use the key.  To resurrect me, so that I could be her slave all over again.” 

“Resurrect?” 

Foolish, stupid hope leapt up within him before Rumplestiltskin could stop himself.  So there _was_ a way out.  Would it only work to swap one Dark One for another, or was there another way?  But the drained look on the old man’s face gave him pause, and the practiced sorcerer within Rumplestiltskin started to wonder: _At what price?_

“She built this place to hold me.  The rest of you are just…consequences.” 

There was always a price. 

“Why you?” Rumplestiltskin asked, burning for a _name_.  Names had meaning, and this one, he sensed, was important.  Particularly since the old man seemed to think that his name no longer applied to him—but names were more than labels, they were windows to the soul.  They were shapes and definitions and oh so very significant.  But the old man was convinced that he was no longer who he had been, and _that_ had to mean something, too. 

“Power, of course,” was the answer.  “It always comes down to power.  Power, power, power, trap it and own it and make it your slave…”

 

*************

 

Some time later—three major battles, four minor (three of which Rumplestiltskin only watched), and another fruitless conversation with the old man later, something _changed_.  By then, even Rumplestiltskin had been in the vault long enough to know that nothing ever did that; each moment bled into the next, all illuminated by the same eerie red glow and punctuated by the dripping ooze of darkness.  Time passed in the vault without really passing, and the only change the others had ever experienced came when a newcomer died and joined them.  But by now, all the others knew that there would be no further Dark Ones.  Word had eventually gotten around that Rumplestiltskin was the last—though most of them didn’t know _how_ he’d come to be that, and he’d heard a half-dozen theories on the subject—which meant there would be no more variations to the routine. 

Until, suddenly, there was.  It was subtle, at first, a taste of magic in the air that was different from everything else.  Darker, even.  Slowly, potent and powerful magic started to fill the vault, igniting the particles in the air and sending a shiver tearing down Rumplestiltskin’s spine.  It was almost like… 

“Someone is trying to summon the Dark One,” Arwan said with a sneer.  “Someone _close_.” 

“The book,” Sekhmet confirmed with a nod, very obviously not looking at her (at the moment) enemy. 

“The key,” a third voice rasped, and they all—all seventeen of them, gathered in the main chamber by mutual desire to know what was happening—turned to face the old man.  “Someone has the key.” 

Tia Dalma shuddered, and the old man grinned out a grimace.  He turned to look at Rumplestiltskin, his black eyes going blue. 

“It’s your turn, lad.  Be grateful you still have the dagger, else whomever controls the key would _own_ you.” 

Rumplestiltskin wheeled to face the old man, instinctively reaching for the dagger and only just stopping before the blade landed visibly in his hand.  _Protect the dagger!_ the curse screamed desperately, even as he felt its excitement rising within him.  Rage and victory warred inside him; someone was foolish enough to raise the Dark One from the dead, and that someone would pay the price— 

_“…Then Danns called the dagger and when she was tired of her ‘new’ Dark One, she forced Tia Dalma to use the key.  To resurrect me, so that I could be her slave all over again.”_ The old man hadn’t had to tell Rumplestiltskin what the price was. Tia Dalma had paid it at the Black Fairy’s behest.  Command.  

Who was up there now, sending a chill down Rumplestiltskin’s spine as they walked on the face of the vault?  Who was tricking who into paying the price?  When he’d first heard that resurrection was possible, Rumplestiltskin had thought of Belle, of Bae, of the possibility that those he loved more than life itself would somehow find a way to bring him back, but he had known that such hopes were foolish.  Neither his son nor his love were the type to dabble in such dark magic, and dark magic this was.  The one who raised the Dark One would have to be steeped in such magic, consumed by it.  No one else would ever think of reaching for the most evil curse in all creation. 

“Why him?” Zoso stepped forward to demand, his eyes wild with desire.  “It could be any of us.” 

An ugly growl swept around the chamber, but Rumplestiltskin could think of calling magic to defend himself, someone else stepped forward.  No matter _who_ was orchestrating this resurrection, he intended for it to be him who returned to the land of the living—and apparently the old man agreed, because _power_ swept out around the two of them, power enough to make any Dark One pause.  It carried with it that echo of greatness, of _eternity_ , and Rumplestiltskin almost drew back from the magic as the old man straightened, the molding scales vanishing form his skin as order imposed itself upon his feral hair and beard.  For a moment, the old man looked like a sorcerer straight out of legend, a _good_ sorcerer, and not the wildly mad Dark One they all knew he was. 

Or did they? 

“That’s the nature of the curse,” the old man answered even as Zoso shied away from the burst of power.  “The last one in is the one who can be called, and no other.  Ask Tia Dalma, if you doubt me.” 

The dark-skinned madwoman only shook her head wildly, retreating to the back of the group and staring.  Her eyes never once left the old man, wide and worried, full of terror.  The old man, however, smiled viciously. 

“This is what we are,” he laughed.  “Now you’ll pay the price.”  

The last part was directed at Rumplestiltskin, who tried hard not to swallow.  But life was better than this, wasn’t it?  Damn the costs—he couldn’t escape the pull, anyway.  Even when he _thought_ about moving away, he suddenly found that his feet were stuck to the floor, held firmly in place by oozing black darkness that gathered around him.  A circle of it was forming, one about eight feet in diameter, thick and dark and potently painful.  Well aware of the agony that ooze could cause, the others all backed away—all but the old man, who stood his ground, still smiling a smile that never reached his eyes.  He looked at Zoso one last time. 

“He’ll be back, lad.  You can have your fun then.”  But the old man sized Rumplestiltskin up one last time.  “Or perhaps he won’t.” 

The terrifyingly perceptive comment made hope surge within him.  Rumplestiltskin was going to _live_.  He could find Bae, find Belle, maybe even be who they needed him to be.  And he _could_ avoid this place again.  They were back in the Enchanted Forest, and that meant his curse could be broken.  Not right away, perhaps—he still had uses for the power—but eventually he could _end_ this, could escape the darkness and the evil, could just be Rumplestiltskin.  Oh, he’d made himself embrace all of it down there in the vault, had turned to power and evil instead of love, but he didn’t _have_ to do that.  He’d have a choice, so long as he held onto the dagger, just like he always had. 

So he tried to ignore it when the darkness gathering around him, the curse inside him, laughed at the thought.  _Love is weakness._  

The ooze reached his knees, burning darkness in, turning Rumplestiltskin’s legs into liquid evil.  It hurt enough to make him want to scream, but it was also a victory, an escape.  And then the dagger was in his hand, power swirling around him and the call of the curse echoing more strongly than ever in his mind.  Suddenly breathless, Rumplestiltskin was reminded of his early days as the Dark One, when nothing could stop him and he was never afraid, when the rage and the power and the darkness was enough to fill his soul.  Had he just killed Zoso, or had that been three centuries in the past?  Small distinctions like time no longer seemed to matter.  He was _the Dark One._   Rumplestiltskin could avenge those who had wronged him, do whatever he— 

A hand on his wrist, his right wrist, the one holding the dagger, brought awareness crashing back in.  The old man met his gaze with knowing eyes, and somehow, it never entered Rumplestiltskin’s mind that the original Dark One might want to take the dagger and take his place. 

“Make your choice, Rumplestiltskin,” the old man said softly.  “And choose well.” 

“What?”  The darkness was up to his waist, now.  It would swallow him in moments, bring him to the surface, and spit him back out again.  

“I did not,” the first Dark One replied.  “Until the last.  You’ll understand someday, I expect, though not without first paying the price.” 

The curse— _his_ again, and no other’s—wanted Rumplestiltskin to scoff at the notion.  But the careful sorcerer he’d become, in addition to the power granted by the curse, felt a touch of alarm upon hearing those words.  There was something he wasn’t seeing, something he could not know.  His visions of the future remained firmly planted in the living world, so this wasn’t the Seer’s powers cropping up again.  Was this just experience?  Instinct?  A bit of foresight left behind?  He had no way to know. 

“Merlin,” the old man whispered before releasing him and stepping back. 

“ _What?”_  

A small, sad smile touched the wizened face, and Rumplestiltskin watched the wildness come back to the blue eyes, watched scales crop back up and the polished exterior fade beneath centuries of darkness.  “You asked my name.” 

The darkness swallowed Rumplestiltskin before that name had a chance to sink in, before he could ask if the old man was serious or if he was lying—but he _couldn’t_ be lying, wasn’t, and suddenly everything made too much sense.  Pain raced like lightning through his body, and Rumplestiltskin suddenly felt like his entire being was being deconstructed and eaten away by the ooze, transformed into nothing but liquid darkness that brought him to the surface, boiling out of the vault and into the world of the living.  He didn’t belong here, Rumplestiltskin realized belatedly, despite his passionate desire to live, despite the nasty habits that had kept him alive for so long.  Even as the darkness, the liquid of the curse, slowly rose to give him new form, Rumplestiltskin knew that was true. 

But the dagger was in his hand when he found himself back in his old scaled and imp-like form, clutched as if it was a lifeline, tethering him to sanity.  Or to something.  _Protect the dagger!_ the curse demanded, and Rumplestiltskin’s fingers clung to it tighter.  He would be no one’s tool, no one’s slave.  He was the Dark One, and no one could stop him.  Already the memories of the vault were beginning to fade into the background, to become less important than the sudden sensory input of being _alive_.  He could smell snow, feel cold, and the light around him was eerily blue with moonlight, not red as he’d grown far too used to.  He was alive!  He had _won._  

And then he saw his son lying on the ground, a distinctive mark burned into his hand as he lay dying, and all thoughts of victory fled.

 

*************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading! Those of you who have also read “Original Powers” can probably see a few echoes of that fic here, since the two share an origin story for the curse of the Dark One. Here, I’ve tried to examine why Rumplestiltskin is different when he emerges from the Vault in 3B, so please let me know what you think!


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